Shattered
by Yvanthe
Summary: Set before the Events of 'Pain is a poison' - intended as part of that series. The day that Mycroft Holmes became the Iceman


Mycroft stands off to the side as emergency workers fight to extract the occupants from the twisted government car and if grief and fear threaten to overtake him, he was trained far better than show an ounce of it. He doesn't know it but these are the moments that earn him the title Iceman and nothing could be further than the truth.

Studying the milling workers, he grinds his teeth and he thinks back to his arrival on the scene, of how some clod from the Met had dared questioned his presence there. _'I am a Holmes_,' he'd stated simply, '_there is a Holmes in that car. That car is your concern, I'm not here.'_ The police constable promptly left and went off to tattle to a Sergeant who took one look at the man in the expensive suit and then shuffled the PC off with a '_Do you know who's in the car, lad? The bloody British government, now go do something useful and keep the press back from that side street.' _

Mycroft was startled when he felt a hand on his elbow, shaking him once roughly and he turned to meet the concerned eyes of Greg Lestrade, "I just bloody heard over the radio, Myc, what the hell happened?"

Releasing a deep breath, he closed his eyes for a moment, "The incompetents at the scene seem to think there was a gas explosion." He shook his head, "Not with that sort of damage, you'll find the cause to be explosives. Two of the security detail are dead, the one in the back with Sherrinford is injured badly. It's a bloody mess, Greg."

"Sherrinford?"

Mycroft paled, if that was possible, "It's bad, Greg, they won't tell me how bad but it's bad."

Lestrade gripped his friend's shoulder, nodding sharply, "They'll tell me, I'll see what I can find out."

"No," Mycroft said shortly, shaking off the comfort and wrapping himself in the tatters of his dignity, "I will take care of this, Mummy will want to know what happened and 'I don't know' is not an answer I can give her. Find out who did this, Greg, find them fast."

Approaching the space where the paramedics worked frantically with emergency services to pull the survivors from the ruined shell of a Bentley, Mycroft was surprised to see a member of Sherrinford's security detail watching the workers with the attention of a hawk despite her own obvious injuries. Her tights were tattered and bloody in spots, there appeared to be a minor injury to her arm which was mostly hidden by her suit jacket and for moment he thought she'd sprained her arm, given how her arm was extended across her chest and into her jacket. '_No,'_ he thought, _'she's prepared to pull a firearm.'_

She straightened when she noticed his attention, stating crisply, "I've not left the site, sir, and have requested additional personnel. They should be arriving imminently."

His eyebrow shot up, before he smoothed his features back into a mask of calm, "Have yourself tended to."

"No, sir," she bit out. "Unsecure site, what coverage we have is sparse on the ground. I will stay with the asset. No disrespect intended, sir."

Shocked to his core, he stood in the detritus of the accident and studied the woman before him.

New, 'so shiny she squeaks' as Sherrinford would have said, fresh from Uni, fresh into the service. The suit she wore was garbage now but had been of good quality if somewhat inexpensive – made of good materials and of a good cut – meant to last. If she was in pain, she gave no sign of it and if she noticed his prolonged attention, she gave no sign of that either. She was twenty-one, twenty-two at the most, certainly not older than Sherlock. A moment of pain and sorrow flicked over his face then, this news would devastate his younger brother and he steeled himself again. Eyes flickering over the rapt attention she expended on the service workers, he said only, "Follow them to the hospital, never take your eyes off Sherrinford for a moment, do you understand me?"

"Clear as crystal," she replied, never taking her eyes off the car.

Seated in the waiting room of the Emergency Ward, Mycroft held his mother's hand while they waited for news. Four hours into surgery and they had no idea how Sherrinford was doing and Mycroft didn't like it for a moment. He hadn't particularly liked the shock he'd received when he'd called his mother either.

_She'd answered the phone in her characteristic sunny manner, earnest and warm until she'd heard why he'd called and then the façade had shattered in a heartbeat. 'I shall arrive within the hour', and with that had disconnected the call. If her response had been shocking, her arrival thirty-two minutes later with several black suited members of MI-6 had been more so. He had always been fond of Mummy, this version of Mummy; however, was completely foreign to him and he listened without comment as she explained her involvement with the British Government to him. He'd always thought she was the retired secretary of a minor official and he discovered now how much of a joke that was. Five years he'd been purposefully vague about what he did, all the while, Sherrinford had been reporting his actions to the person Sherrinford had replaced - their mother._

"Mrs. Holmes?" Both looked up at the surgeon and then he watched as his mother stood, followed the surgeon off to the side. A variety of emotions crossed her face at lightning speed, fear, horror and then a grief so palpable he could almost taste it. She turned to glance him and shook her head slightly and in that moment, Mycroft froze. His mother returned to him, wrapped her arms around him and sobbed, he never shed a tear.

He held his mother until she regained her composure, his face impassive in the face of his grief, "Mycroft," she said quietly and he startled, she so rarely called him by his name, "This is going to change everything, son."

He nodded sagely, knowing that there would be little choice, he would be reassigned, someone would take over Sherrinford's work – so much left undone. "I will do whatever I can to make the transition smooth for Sherrin's successor, Mummy," he assured her, a million thoughts flicking through his brain in rapid fire. _'So much to do'_.

She shook her head, "That won't be necessary, dear. Sherrin has kept me up to date on all the day to day doings, I will step in and take over until you're ready." He'd blinked then, this was not what he was expecting. "It was always Sherrin's intention that you take over the post, dear. Not how this was supposed to happen, but needs must when the devil drives."

A scuffle in the hallway, near the room where Sherrinford's body lay broke out and the security detail physically restrained an orderly. The man was short, his hair dark and his face keen, Mycroft disliked him on sight. Approaching the guards, he stared daggers at the orderly, his shouldered stiffening as he muttered, "Be gone." As the orderly scurried away, he heard one quip 'Cold bastard' to another, he would have said something in retort had it not been for the sounds of a movement behind him. He turned in time to see the young woman from earlier, swing forward and slap the offending agent with the grip of her service pistol.

Blood and possibly teeth flew from his mouth as he spat epitaphs at the woman who stood staring him down. Faintly, just on the edges of his hearing, he heard her hiss,_ 'Show some class for once in your sorry life, 'iggins. You may not like the man, but he's the boss's brother, your better and you will show respect for the office and their grief.'_ Turning on his heel, Mycroft inclined his head towards her and asked, "Your name?"

"Anthea Tod, sir."

He nodded then, a faint smile ghosting across his features before disappearing back into the mask.

One whole year had passed since Sherringford's funeral, one year of lessons, tasks and trials before Mummy had deemed him ready and she had faded back to her country house retirement life of tea and bridge. He thought to himself that he'd rather be shot but she seemed to be happy that way.

Life had not been easy in the aftermath of Sherrin's death, the learning curve had been sharp for all of them and none had it harder than Sherlock. He'd been forced to watch his brother descend into despair, then addiction and getting him past both was proving harder than he could have imagined. When his grief threatened to swallow him whole, he subsumed himself in the work, in doing everything he could to prevent such threats from happening to others. He liked to think Sherrin would have approved.

Today was his first official day in charge and unlike all the days previous, he had only one particular task in mind. The intercom buzzed and announced his caller. A fierce grin crossed his face for a moment before he schooled himself into what would become his patented stoic gaze and he remembered his mother's words to him, '_We all need someone, Mycroft, like it or not. I had Sherrin, Sherrin had you and regrettably Sherlock cannot be that someone for you. Find someone and train them, England will need them some day.'_ He nodded to himself with a sigh, _'Very well, Mummy. Let's begin, shall we?'_

He stayed seated as Anthea Tod slipped into his office, impeccably dressed in a stylish but sensible suit. He smiled faintly, before asking her, "Can you type?"

She seemed perplexed for a moment, before stating, "About as well as any University student, sir."

"Rudimentary then," he murmured, handing her a file, "improve it, your cover will require it." He turned then, studying the portrait of the Queen above his tiny office, "What we do here is important, it will require a diverse skill set. You will be expected to keep in constant contact with me, your free time will be miniscule and you will find that I'm an exacting, demanding employer. I will require you to perform tasks that may, from time to time, seem odd. Will that be a problem?"

She grinned at him, dimples flashing before she schooled her face into a mirror-like picture of calm, "No."


End file.
